


Scorpius Malfoy Orchestrates a Double Date

by RoseHarperMaxwell



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Alternate Universe - Muggle, Co-workers, Complicated Relationships, Double Dating, Enemies, Father-Son Relationship, First Crush, M/M, Movie: Jurassic Park (1993), POV First Person, POV Scorpius Malfoy, Pining Scorpius Malfoy, Professor Draco Malfoy, Professor Harry Potter, Scorpius Malfoy & Albus Severus Potter Friendship, Secret Relationship, Single Parent Draco Malfoy, Single Parent Harry Potter
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-11
Updated: 2020-12-11
Packaged: 2021-03-10 20:42:39
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,120
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28003323
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RoseHarperMaxwell/pseuds/RoseHarperMaxwell
Summary: Draco and Harry have been rivals since childhood, and now they teach paleontology at the same university. Scorpius talks Draco into bringing him to the movies, but neglects to mention that they're watching Jurassic Park. Or that they're meeting Harry and Albus.Very AU: Muggle, American, modern—but a good modern, where Jurassic Park comes out in a coronavirus-free 2020, instead of 1993.
Relationships: Draco Malfoy/Harry Potter, Scorpius Malfoy/Albus Severus Potter
Comments: 36
Kudos: 111
Collections: mightbewriting mightbehavingabirthday





	Scorpius Malfoy Orchestrates a Double Date

**Author's Note:**

  * For [mightbewriting](https://archiveofourown.org/users/mightbewriting/gifts).



> Amanda, your [World of Wait and Hope](https://archiveofourown.org/series/1737079) is truly stellar Dramione. B&E has made my Mondays better and my Fridays a sweet lead-in to the weekend. In short, your writing has improved my quality of life. Thank you! Happy birthday!
> 
> For you, several of my writing firsts: Drarry, Scorbus, Muggle AU. I tried to indulge a few of your preferences. If you love anything, it's because I threw some words in a document and [persephone_stone](https://archiveofourown.org/users/persephone_stone/pseuds/persephone_stone) moved them around until they made sense. Anything that's off is something I touched after she last looked. Thank you for being spectacular and for the nudge out of my comfort zone, persephone_stone! And thank you so much to [In_Dreams](https://archiveofourown.org/users/In_Dreams/pseuds/In_Dreams) for the beautiful aesthetic. 
> 
> Warning: First person POV. I know that's not everyone's cup of tea. But Scorpius is such a sweet cinnamon roll: a little sly, a little pure, a lot extra—in his inner monologue, at least. I hope you'll give it a shot.

“Oh. It’s _you.”_

Dad sighs deeply. It’s a honed blade in his arsenal of dramatic flair that is as good as a _fuck me_. 

I give him a look over my shoulder, with widened eyes and a tilt of my head that says _Really? You can’t play nice for one evening?_

Perhaps I inherited my nonverbal communication skills from my father. And perhaps I could have warned him, when I asked him to bring me to the movies to meet a friend, that the friend was Albus Potter and the film was Jurassic Park. But I actually wanted to make it to the theatre, so a bit of obfuscation about the fact that Albus’s father would _also_ be in attendance was necessary. _Fail to plan, plan to fail,_ like Dad always says.

I waste no time ducking in next to Al. Mr. Potter (Harry, I’m supposed to call him) is seated right behind us, in the last row. Mercifully, Dad’s show of petulance in the aisle is over by the time the Regal roller coaster on screen approaches the giant popping kernels.

“Scorpius neglected to mention that Albus was the friend we were meeting.” 

“Mm,” Harry says. “I’m sorry to hear that. Al tells me everything.”

This bit of needling earns a snort from Dad. “Then you must have known about this?” He tips his head at the screen. “Some paleontologist you are, Potter.”

The movie hasn’t even started and there’s snarky banter already. I’m very pleased. Sometimes they just orbit one another at science fairs and football games, pretending like they don’t work together and haven’t known each other for thirty years. But I’m not fooled. They make far too much eye contact for plausible indifference. Al’s on board with my hypothesis: a couple hours of casual, forced proximity could be transformative.

“Hey, Al.” I pull extra napkins from my coat pocket and offer them to Albus after settling in my seat. It’s not the type of thing he thinks of. He sucks salt and butter off of his thumb and forefinger before accepting them from me with a grin. The act is probably not meant to be alluring, but it makes me wish I’d left the napkins at the counter. 

He offers me the popcorn and jerks his head in a nod behind him. “So. That’s going well so far.”

Neither of us had been sure how they’d react. Dad and Harry grew up together, were ruthless rivals in class and on the basketball court, and continued their one-upmanship into adulthood, working in the same paleontology department at the same university.

Their enmity was legendary. In eighth grade, I had to write a descriptive paragraph about my best friend, so I wrote about Al. Ms. McGonagall took one look at it and _tittered._ The titter turned into a giggle, which turned into a fit of cackling laughter that made her eyes leak. “I’m sorry, Scorpius,” she’d said. “I’m not laughing at you. It’s just—your fathers were _so..._ ” And then she’d cackled some more.

Speaking of that assignment, she’d eventually returned it to me with an understanding smile and a pat on my shoulder. I guess I'd gone a little overboard with my description of Al. Probably no one else described their best friend’s eyes as “glittering orbs of deepest emerald.” God. I’m mortified on behalf of my thirteen-year-old self. 

Besides, they’re actually jade.

Dad’s trashing the movie again before it’s even really started. I probably should have picked a different one, but Al really wanted to see it, and I’d already ordered tickets at this theatre. It’s the good one with the high-backed reclining seats. I could tell Dad was thrilled I didn’t just want to be dropped off, because he let me log some driver’s permit time behind the wheel of the Tesla. Now I feel kind of bad that I ruined his evening.

“Look, Draco, anything that inspires a love of science should be celebrated,” says Harry.

“Don’t virtue signal me, Potter. I’m a devoted educator. I have a _moral obligation_ to denounce this fantastical dinosaur porn.” 

Harry chokes on popcorn when Dad says _porn_. 

For all the snippy remarks he’s made, when the brachiosaur drops off its hind legs, shaking the valley floor, Dad turns solemn. “Well. That would be something, wouldn’t it?”

I roll my eyes at Al, and he shakes his head and smiles. My father is, to put it mildly, a lot. It makes me self-conscious when I see pieces of him in my own mannerisms, so it’s reassuring that Al doesn’t seem to mind. He knows me better than he knows Dad, so maybe he sees it the other way around. Maybe Dad reminds him of me.

Al takes a drink of his giant soda, and I notice a fresh coat of polish on his nails. It was chipped at school today, so Lily must have reapplied it before the movie. I wonder if the timing was a coincidence.

The frog DNA explanation breaks Dad’s reverie and pisses him off again. Now he can’t shut up to save his life. Thank God there aren’t many people here. 

“First of all, half of these dinosaurs are Cretaceous. Why call it ‘Jurassic Park’ if you’re not going to do your fucking research.” He scoffs and shifts gears. “What this film needs is more Dr. Malcolm. Although mathematicians in real life are not that attractive.”

“Messy black hair and glasses really do it for you, Malfoy?” 

The fuck? Is Harry flirting? I glance backwards in time to see Dad toss a handful of popcorn at him. 

“You wish, Potter.”

Oh, they _both_ are.

On screen, Dr. Malcolm (who _is_ sort of hot for someone that old, I have to admit) waves a flare at a T-Rex. Dad chuckles. “Well, he certainly has the same hero complex you have.”

“I do not—one time! _One time_ I tackled an armed sociopath in the middle of a lecture. That does not mean I have a hero complex. I’m sick of hearing about it, to tell you the truth. What was I supposed to do?”

“I don’t know, Savior, you tell me.” I can hear the smirk in Dad’s voice; he’s loving this. It’s an interesting tidbit I file away for later. Like he’s always said: information gathering can be very valuable. 

As the Jeep lands in a tree on the giant screen in front of us, Al shifts his arm on our shared armrest and presses the side of his hand flush against mine. Pinky to pinky. I can feel the heat of his arm through the sleeve of my hoodie. He says nothing, just keeps eating popcorn with his other hand, eyes glued to the screen. My stomach is aflutter as I wonder what the fuck is going on. Al reaches across his body to pull his soda from the cupholder between us, and after a long slurp, he settles it into the holder on his other side. Easier to reach with his free hand, I realize. The hand touching mine never moves.

A sudden image appears in my mind of Al wearing the leather jacket Harry’s godfather left him. He wears it to school and smudges his eyes with kohl eyeliner and looks better than anyone else I have ever seen. Like he’s a rockstar, or something.

Somehow on screen they’ve only just gotten out of the tree, but it feels like an eternity that we’ve been sitting here with our hands connected like north-seeking and south-seeking poles. It’s magnetic. A strong pull would be necessary to separate us, but I certainly don’t plan to try. Al continues eating and drinking with his free hand. I think he’s avoiding eye contact, or maybe he’s just really into this movie. I’m starting to wonder if he even notices we’re touching (how could he _not_ ) when I feel it: his pinky is moving. Curling. Dragging—slowly, gently, _deliberately_ —back and forth along the smooth surface of the armrest. It strokes along the outside of mine. 

I can’t breathe. 

I can’t even pretend to focus on the movie anymore. Instead, my mind wanders. Al is the only person who looks at my drawings and really sees them. He absorbs them, head cocked sideways in consideration, and then he tells me how the art _feels_. "This one's like standing in front of the air conditioner on the hottest day of summer," or "this is the saddest thing I've ever seen. It needs, like, a long hug. Maybe some CBT." It's so different from the critical eye my dad casts; like I need to really apply myself if I want to take the world by storm with my fucking charcoal sketches. Al just smiles, no matter how he’s decided the art feels, and follows it with something genuine that makes me melt. Like, "I don’t know how you do this, Scor. It’s like magic."

Fuck, I’m going pass out before I get any clarity here. When his finger brushes mine one, two, three more times, I exhale shakily. This is definitely intentional contact.

As the pinky grazing intensifies, so does my heart rate. Now on the upstroke of each movement, Al brushes the pad of his finger over the top of my pinky, then back down the outside, then repeats the whole thing over again. It’s a gentle caress. I sneak a very careful glance at him without turning my head. He’s just eating popcorn—the picture of innocence. But he _has_ to know what he’s doing. I’m certain of it now. He always does.

Take Constance McLaggen, for example. A few months ago in sophomore chemistry, she gave me grief about Granddad’s prison stint for insider trading—in front of everyone. It was mortifying. Two weeks later, the copper wire Constance needed for the reaction cycle experiment she’d been going on about was missing after Al collected our own supplies from the closet. "Guess you should have planned ahead, Constance," he said, smirking at her infuriated rummaging through the shelves. The "you fucking cunt" that followed was quieter, and only for my benefit. 

Dr. Malcolm is now inexplicably open-shirted on screen, glistening chest heaving, but my mind is too hazy to appreciate it. I take a deep breath and, on the next sweeping motion, I curl my pinky finger, catching Al’s beneath my own. He doesn’t turn his head, doesn’t look at me. But I see his mouth turn up in a smile.

He’s good at biding his time. He’s patient. He knows how to wait until whatever he wants basically sets itself up. "Chill, Scor," he’ll often say to me. "It'll work itself out."

And he’s right. It has. This attraction I feel toward my best friend—the thing I’ve been losing sleep over since my very first middle school PE locker room experience—has shifted. Has moved, quite literally, an inch in the right direction. 

I breathe in deep through my nose, out through my mouth. It’s a single finger, but we’re technically holding hands. I’m holding hands with Albus Potter. It’s the hottest thing that’s ever happened to me. A million times better than the bored peck Ivy Parkinson-Zabini planted on me in grade school, informing me I needed to “work on it” if I expected to marry her someday.

This...this is incendiary. I am aflame. Maybe Al reciprocates my feelings. If our dads weren’t behind us right now, I’d definitely try kissing him before the credits roll. Maybe. How did he ever work up the nerve to make a move? My stomach twists at the thought of putting myself out there, even with the advance knowledge that he’s into it, probably. Al looks completely unaffected. Probably gets it from his dad. Fucking Potters have nerves of steel.

Speaking of his dad...I’m so focused on my own salacious hand action that it takes me longer than it should to notice things have quieted down considerably in the row behind us. I don’t want to move, for fear of losing any precious contact between our linked fingers, but my curiosity gets the better of me. I sneak a peek backward between the seats. 

Dad’s leaned in, speaking softly to Harry, whose throat bobs in a visible swallow. 

Harry tilts his head to say something in return. I’m mesmerized as Dad fusses, like the barrier between them is preventing him from hearing and it’s all Harry’s fault. “Honestly, Potter,” he admonishes, lifting the armrest between them and folding it back out of the way.

Who does Dad think he's fooling? Harry’s going to call him out for that blatant move. 

Except he doesn't. He just leans closer. Dad goes back to whispering until Harry’s fingers tighten on the outer armrest.

I notice. And I see Dad notice, too. 

Then— _then._ Dad pushes a proprietary hand through the hair over Harry's temple. Like it offends him and he's allowed to touch it. 

“These raptors don’t even have feathers, Potter.” This complaint is loud enough for me to hear, but it’s definitely a murmur, and Harry’s soft huff of laughter sounds suspiciously fond.

I feel my eyes narrow. They don’t even see me, they’re so focused on each other. Since when does Dad _run his hand_ through Harry Potter’s hair? 

I meant to set them up tonight. Address their obvious obsession with each other, lay the groundwork for an eventual friendship. Maybe more, if they could stand to be in the same room with one another for the length of a movie. But they seem _fairly_ fucking friendly already. 

“What is it?” Albus tilts his head toward me, eyes on the screen as...a velociraptor opens a kitchen door? I couldn’t recap the plot of this movie for any amount of money. I’ve been pretty distracted, to be honest. Leave it to Al to sit here, nonchalant. _Touched my best friend today in a more-than-friends way, no big deal._

“It’s working,” I whisper back. “I fucking told you it would.” Satisfaction soothes the shock of my father practically canoodling his supposed arch enemy. There will be a Malfoy Meeting about whatever’s going on between them. Dad’s not the only one who can call those. 

“Never doubted you, Scor.” Al gives me a lazy smile, and I squeeze my pinky finger—I’m never letting go—around his. 

For one chest-clenching moment, I freeze as he pulls away, but it’s just to rotate his hand and slide it beneath mine, locking _all_ of our fingers. Smooth as can be. His thumb strokes over the knuckle of my forefinger, and it's pure eroticism. I may die of ecstasy right here in this reclining seat. 

Al's watching me now. I can see it out of the corner of my eye. And his expression—well, I was wrong to call him unaffected, let's just say that. It occurs to me for the first time that I might not have been the only one putting a plan into motion tonight.

The movie ends, but I stay seated. I have a sudden interest in watching the credits in their entirety. But I hear movement behind us, and Al squeezes my hand before releasing it and standing up to stretch, so I do the same.

Dad looks at me. I look at him. We match each other, brow for raised brow. He breaks first.

“Dessert, Potters? We have brownie sundaes at our house.”

* * *

They agree to follow us. I’m ecstatic at the chance to spend more time with Al tonight. It’s dark out and I’m far too distracted, so I let Dad drive. The walk back to the car is silent.

As soon as the car doors close, though, it’s on. 

“Can we talk about you and Harry and—whatever that was?”

Dad doesn’t miss a beat. He’s ready for me, or so he thinks. “Can we talk about your hand holding?” 

“Sure, I’ll go first. I’ve had a crush on Al for years, but I’m sure you already know that. Looks like he might feel the same way, which is cool. We’ll figure it out.” 

I don’t feel the slightest ounce of shame in calling his bluff. I’m on cloud fucking nine right now. I’d shout about Al from the rooftops.

Dad’s smile is rueful and he shakes his head lightly; it’s very gratifying to see that he knows he’s underestimated me. “That’s great, Scorpius. I’m glad. Albus is a good kid.”

“Yeah. Your turn.” 

Dad’s smile fades into a thoughtful expression. He drums his fingers on the steering wheel. He turns on his blinker, stops at a red light. When he’s out of evasive maneuvers, he asks, “What would you like to know?”

Everything. I want to know _everything._ “Have you been seeing each other? Wait—clearly you have. How _long_ have you been seeing each other? Why is it a secret? Are you two fuc—”

“We are not having that kind of heart-to-heart, Scorpius.” Dad has a death grip on the steering wheel. “Is that—that’s not the type of thing you want me to ask _you,_ is it? Christ.” One hand leaves the wheel to massage his forehead and slide down his face. “Parenting is hard.”

I wait for him to continue, but he’s quiet for too long. “Sorry. I’m just actively listening, whenever you’re ready to answer.”

There’s a few more beats of nothing but road noise, then: “I’m proud of you, Scorpius.”

Ugh. _“Dad.”_

“I am. You’re very...emotionally intelligent. I can’t take much credit for that, but I’m glad. It was never this easy for me to talk to my parents.”

That’s sweet, and I can tell it’s genuine. But he’s not getting out of this that easily. “I’m sorry you felt like you couldn’t talk to them. Guess what, though? You can talk to me now. How _long,_ Dad?”

A giant breath drawn through his nose, exhaled out through his mouth. “It’s complicated. It’s been complicated for—I don’t know. How old are you now?”

“Jesus, Dad!” 

“We’re figuring it out, too. We’ve come a long way, I promise.” He laughs, a delighted chuckle, and I wonder how much of a weight it lifted to acknowledge that out loud. “Don’t worry about it, son.”

I nod slowly. “Alright. Well, I’m fine with it, if that’s any part of what’s ‘complicated.’” I give him a sly glance as he turns into the driveway. “Harry’s a good guy.”

No response to that, but while he waits for the garage door, he smirks at me. “So. Albus. Albus _Potter._ ” 

“Yeah. I guess the apple doesn’t fall too far from the tree.” I laugh at the look on his face. Dessert is going to be so awkward. 

I can’t wait. 


End file.
